


Running to Stand Still

by MidniteMarauder



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: 69ing, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Community: merry_smutmas, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marauders' Era, Romance, Sibling Incest, Slash, post—hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-04
Updated: 2006-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidniteMarauder/pseuds/MidniteMarauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his brother, Sirius searches for a way to reconcile his past with the present. Set Post-Hogwarts, Christmas, 1980.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running to Stand Still

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2005 merry_smutmas exchange for yeats, who requested the three Sirius pairings, hurt/comfort, and happiness. My undying gratitude to ladyblack888, archon_mentha, ragdoll, thistlerose, and Kyrie, for betaing, browbeating, and incessant handholding!
> 
> The song very briefly referenced in the story is "Merry Xmas Everybody" by Slade. (blink and you'll miss it!) Title shamelessly nicked from U2.

Hidden among the shadows of a large yew tree, Sirius watches the procession through narrowed eyes, his wand gripped tightly in his fist, the dark wood a sharp contrast against cold-reddened knuckles. He stands as still as the nearby tombs, cold granite himself, but inside he is burning, raging at the mockery and hypocrisy that parades before him. The pinched, dignified, tearless faces of false grief, the quietly murmured words of pity that float back to him, an insect's buzz on the harsh wind; at the smug veiled face of his cousin Bellatrix walking on the arm of her husband, Rodolphus, feigning sorrow in her posture for appearance's sake.

He spots a familiar nose, and his eyes narrow even further, storm-cloud slits in a marble façade, knuckles now bone-white, fingernails biting deeply into flesh, hands shaking with restraint. Severus Snape glances around quickly, bends his head against the weather and snarls something to Avery. Others soon follow on their heels: Aunt Amaryllis, Great Uncle Thuban, cousin Narcissa and her bastard of a husband, Lucius Malfoy. The names and faces are a blur of grey and black cloaks now, caricatures from another life left behind. He watches as they murmur to each other, huddling in their cloaks against the onslaught of blustery wind and sleet, offering an occasional pat to the shoulder in solace, crumpled white handkerchiefs fluttering dispassionately against black veils and elegant gloved hands; he watches as they exit through the tall wrought iron gates and Disapparate.

Where –? Ah.

Mother.

A thin bent figure stands alone over the sealed tomb seemingly oblivious to the departure of the crowd, her wind-whipped cloak the only sign of movement. He steps out from his refuge, the soft crunching of his footsteps on the grass masked by the swirling wind rustling through evergreen needles and making the bare branches scritch and creak overhead.

"Rather poor etiquette to invite the murderers of the deceased as guests to his funeral, wouldn't you say, _Mother_?" His lips twist into a sneer, and he nearly spits the final word.

"You!" She straightens up and turns to face him, eyes wide and lips curled. "You are no son of mine!"

"Nice to see you, too. Lovely weather we're having, no?" he says, brushing icy-wet hair back from his face.

"Look at you! Your clothing! It's… It's…" Her usual dignified composure is slipping, and she presses her lips together sharply into a thin white line.

"Rather stylish I thought."

"Filthy mudblood lover! How _dare_ you desecrate this place with your – your foul presence!"

He throws back his head and laughs bitterly, the sound ugly even to his own ears.

"Desecrate. Me. Oh, that's just brilliant, Mother."

"You have some nerve, coming here after what you did," she says, again trying to recover her poise, but there is a slight tremor in her hands, and she compresses her lips once more into a thin, bloodless line.

"What I did. I tried to save him. You… You helped murder him. And now… look at you." He gestures at the empty desolation of the deserted cemetery around them. "Alone with only yourself to blame. How does it feel, Mother?

"It's because of _you_ that my son is dead!" She stabs her finger at him and takes a menacing step forward, but he does not flinch. "Left with nothing but _ashes_, and it's _your_ doing! Not even a proper body to lay to rest… to… to honour with the traditional proprieties befitting an Heir of a Noble House! If it was ever discovered –"

"Ashes? Your son is dead, and all you care about is tradition? You truly are a heartless bitch."

He does not see the hand lashing out, but he feels the harsh sting of the slap across his cheek, barely distinguishable from the relentless pelting of frozen rain except for the sudden sharp dig of metal into flesh. He rubs his cheek with his free hand, sees a smear of blood on his fingers, and glares at her while she twists the gaudy gold ring back to rights on her finger.

_Just like she used to do. Some things never change._ His wand is still gripped tightly in his other hand, and it takes all of his self control to bite back the curse that threatens to escape from his chapped lips.

"I should have smothered you in your crib," she says coldly. "You've brought nothing but ruin and disgrace to this family! Your brother _hated_ you. You shamed him enough in life, and now… now you twice shame him in death!"

He smiles at this, brushes a thin trail of blood from his cheek, and wipes his fingers on his jeans.

"No, Mother. Wrong again. You never did understand anything about us, did you?"

"I understand perfectly well! He was everything you could never be. A better son – a better man than you'll ever be. He hated you for being weak and… common," she spits.

His voice is low and even. "Regulus didn't hate me," he says. "He loved me."

She scoffs at his words, arms folded dismissively against her chest.

"Damn you! I _saved_ him in death!" he shouts, then stops suddenly and closes his mouth, realizing that he has nothing more that he wants or needs to say. She hadn't known before; she'd never believe now. Anything he said toward that end would fall on deaf ears.

"Go back to that mausoleum you call a home and rot in your solitude. I've finished with you, old hag."

Squaring his shoulders, he turns and walks away, heedless of the shrieking invective she is now directing at his back: "Shame of my flesh! Abomination!" He's heard it countless times before after all. Reaching into his pocket for a fag, he lights it with the tip of his wand and inhales deeply. A moment later, a wisp of smoke and a whiff of tobacco are all that remain to greet the echoing screeches still ringing in the air.

~*~

A cold misty drizzle has replaced the windy sleet from the cemetery when he appears on the street corner. Fag dangling from his lips, he puts his wand into the pocket of his leather jacket and hitches up the collar. He takes a drag and cups the cigarette in his hand to keep it dry, leaning against a lamppost and studying the picture of domesticity before him. The row houses are brick with slate roofs and small, neat yards lined with low hedgerows out front. Flowerless window boxes jut squarely from the door-side windows, and smoke curls, rising from each ordered chimneystack. But, instead of the promise of warmth and comfort before a hearth fire, they merely radiate yet another dismal shade of grey to the day.

James and Lily have only recently moved to this quiet East Sussex neighbourhood, and so far, only a handful of people know the location. _It's better this way_, he thinks. _Safer_. A small grey car manoeuvres down the lane, slowing as it passes. The driver frowns at him, likely thinking him a stranger up to no good. The corner of his mouth quivers momentarily at the thought, and he raises his eyebrow, staring back. The man quickly turns away and drives on, turning into a drive further down the road.

He takes another long drag and wipes at a stray drip of water running down the side of his face. His cheek is still raw from his mother's slap and he holds his hand to the mark, feeling the rough edge of torn skin crusted with dried blood under his fingertip. Long hair dishevelled from wind and wet, still dripping with melting ice down the back of his neck, black leather jacket and boots, black denim jeans and a bloody cut on his face – no wonder the Muggle in the car was wary.

_Fuck it_. He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of his boot, grinding it into the pavement with a vengeance. _Fuck everything. Why the fuck am I here anyway?_

He hadn't even had a chance to pay his proper respects to Regulus, and after their… discussion, he'd had no desire to wait for his mother to leave. James had been his first thought after the confrontation, and here he had come. It was a long held habit. Troubles with the family? Run to James. And James had always been there. His sanctuary. His solace. His brother.

He feels his stomach clench at that thought. He'd had another brother once.

He'd actually felt good after telling the old bitch off, brimming with righteous anger, but the taste of victory is slowly turning to ash in his mouth – ash like the now-cremated remains of a brother he'd left behind, a brother he'd failed to save. He closes his eyes but he can only see the cold, pale slab of lifeless flesh, dull blue eyes staring unseeing from a slack-jawed face. Perhaps his mother had been right…

His breath quickens, and he feels himself choking. He turns his head and bends over, retching up bile on some poor Muggle's front lawn, but he doesn't care. He straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaches into his pocket for another fag and a light.

No. His mother is nothing – knows nothing. Taking a deep drag, he feels the smoke curling in his lungs and holds his breath, savouring the acrid burning taste. Smoke is definitely better than the ash.

"Damn you, Regulus! Why did you have to be so fucking stupid?"

 

~~~*~~~

Christmas at the Noble House of Black was always an elaborate affair: proper, traditional, and brimming with dozens upon dozens of the pureblood faithful of Great Britain, most guests being family through blood or marriage, or both. And with only the very best of aged wines, champagne, port, brandy and firewhisky flowing over in crystal goblets, flutes and snifters, a number of these guests would play upon the hospitality of their hosts and stay overnight rather than run the risk of an embarrassing scandal due to splinching plastered across the pages of the Prophet.

He was livid as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom. If he heard one more word of praise for that blasted 'Dark Lord' and his aim to cleanse wizardkind of the scourge of 'mudbloods and filthy half-breeds', he was going to murder someone with his bare hands.

Stomping down the hall, he threw open his door, banging the knob on the wall behind. He kicked off his shoes, delighting in the sound of them thudding loudly against the far wall, pulled off his formal dress robes, not even flinching at the discordant sound of ripping fabric, and slammed the door shut behind him, casting a strong locking charm over his shoulder.

"Mother will have your head for ruining your new robes like that."

"What the fuck? _Lumos._ God damn it, Regulus, get the fuck out of my room!"

His brother was already clad in his pyjamas, lying under the thick down comforter, head and back propped up on several pillows, and arms folded neatly in front of him. He raised his eyebrow and stared at his naked brother in amusement.

"Not even pants underneath? How very… Gryffindor of you. The snitch socks are a nice touch, though. And no, I will not get out. It's my room tonight, too."

He cursed under his breath, and turned away from Regulus, rummaging through his wardrobe for a pair of pyjama bottoms. He pulled them on and climbed into the bed, elbowing his brother in the process just for good measure and snatching a pillow out from behind his head. "Nox."

"Not in a very good mood, are you?"

"Shut up." He turned over on his side, facing away from his brother.

"Oh, come on, Sirius. What was it this time? Bellatrix still torturing you with jelly-legs and hotfoot hexes? She's only playing. If she meant to hurt you, she would."

"Fuck Bellatrix," he grumbled. "Stupid cunt. I can't wait to get the hell out of this place. I hate this bloody house and everything in it." He pulled the duvet over his shoulder and nestled into his pillow.

"You say that all the time, but you know you don't mean it."

"I do mean it," he huffed.

"I'm in this house," Regulus said softly.

He stiffened. "Well, right now, I hate you, too."

The silence stretched out between them. Faint sounds of muffled laughter and clinking glasses floated up the stairs and down the hallway outside, but all he heard was the hushed breathing coming from the body beside him and his own heartbeat pounding painfully at his temples.

Still no reply. After a long while, he wondered if Regulus had fallen asleep. His leg twitched, aching to shift position, but he was hesitant to move, unwilling to concede. Biting his lip, he reluctantly turned his head to the side, speaking over his shoulder. "I don't hate you," he whispered.

"I know."

Startled, he turned over onto his back. "Thought you were asleep."

"No. Of course not. Feel better now?"

"Maybe. A bit."

"Good. Turn back over."

He did as he was told and held his breath, waiting. Just as he expected, he felt the warm press of his brother's body close against his back. Long thin fingers skated over his side, tickling his chest, moving lower, toying with his navel and the trail of hair there, and he relaxed into the touch, sighing.

"I know you won't leave, Sirius."

The words were no more than a puff of breath against his ear. Regulus splayed his hand across Sirius' belly and arched his back, pushing himself sharply against his brother in an effort to emphasize, to substantiate his words.

He felt the familiar hardness against his bottom and pushed back into it, eliciting a soft gasp from Regulus. The hand on his belly twitched and moved lower, feather light over his pyjamas. Reaching behind, he laid his hand on the back of Regulus' thigh, squeezing lightly and urging him on. Regulus returned the gesture, fingers tightening on his cock, and his breath hitched in his throat. Regulus' hips began to move, slowly, inviting, a prelude to a familiar, soothing rhythm.

All thoughts of the Christmas party and his family were gone as the two of them rocked gently back and forth, nestled together in a cocoon of silk and cotton. This was their own private place where nothing else could touch them, a safe haven from the madness; a fortress of warmth and comfort in the darkness, the only comfort he'd ever found in this wretched house. Regulus' fingers slipped deftly under the waistband, firmly grasping his cock, and he closed his eyes, hips gyrating as the tempo of their dance intensified, soft sighs and breathless moans a counterpoint to the humming in his blood.

"You won't leave me."

The words were, again, no more than a murmur of damp heat against the back of his neck, an indistinct echo far off and otherworldly. His body shook, his cries of release silent on his lips, no more words, no coherent thoughts, only peace.

~~~*~~~

 

He drops the butt of the cigarette to the pavement, shaking his hand and bringing it to his lips to suck on the burnt fingers. He is standing in front of the Potters' house now, though he doesn't remember walking up the street. He looks around, but there are no neighbours about to question or ogle him, and he crosses the lawn, ignoring the path to the front stoop, and instead peering in through a narrow gap in the sheer white curtains of the parlour window.

James is there, with Lily and Harry, and he hears the faint notes of festive music vibrating through the glass. James is singing to Harry, teasing him with strands of deep green garlands and sparkling gold tinsel while Harry giggles in delight, one chubby fist reaching and grasping above his head, the other bringing a crimson bauble to his drooling mouth. Lily is smiling at them both, wand raised as she conjures fairy lights on the tree.

His heart is a heavy weight in his chest. He knows he would be more than welcome, but watching the three of them together, he suddenly feels like an outsider, bereft, and it is almost more than he can bear.

They look so happy, and he wants nothing more than to capture this moment and place it into a fancy silk-lined, gilt chest, keep it locked up for them, keep it safe so they will always have it to treasure. He wants to protect them, even from himself and his own demons.

He watches as James lifts Harry high over his head, and Harry squeals, bauble forgotten, eyes only for James. Lily joins them, and the look that passes between she and James singes his heart. He loves all three of them, but he knows he needs more than James can give him… knows that he doesn't belong here. Not today. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not today.

He sighs and turns from the window, reaching once again into his pocket. He should go and see Remus, he thinks. Should have gone there first. Remus would… No. Things between him and Remus were… complicated, and he'd foolishly burned that particular bridge once, and once is enough. Looking down at the squashed package in his hand, he realizes he's going to need another pack before long.

_A drink, too_, he thinks. A spark flares from the tip of his wand and, a moment later, a muted _crack_, and he is gone.

The front door opens, and a thin, handsome, bespectacled face peers out. "No, Lily. There's no one here," he says, turning away from the grey drizzle and closing the door firmly behind him.

 

~*~

 

The pub is dim and smoky, dark wood scarred and oiled with age. A few decrepit and rather dodgy Christmas decorations are tacked up behind the bar, and a string of tiny light bulbs hangs dark and unlit above. He sidles up to the bar, fresh pack of fags and a brand new blue cigarette lighter in hand, drops them on the bar and slides onto the tall stool, unzipping his jacket.

"Whisky," he says to the barman, peeling the plastic wrapper and fumbling out a smoke. "And not that cheap swill, either. Leave the bottle."

The barman eyes him warily, but a quick hand to the wand in his pocket assures that he'll not be troubled further.

It had been a bad idea to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but it would have been foolish to simply Apparate to the middle of Muggle London. Snape, Avery, and a few of their cronies had been there, and poor Tom had really had no choice but to forcibly throw him out the front door, with a little help from Sturgis. He was now sporting an angry red slash above his right eyebrow, a rip in the sleeve of his jacket, and several bruised knuckles, but it had been worth it to see the look on Snape's face when he'd punched him square in the nose. Broken it, too, from the sound and the amount of blood.

Yes, maybe it had been worth it after all.

He tilts his head back and downs the first shot in a single gulp. The amber liquid burns its way down his throat, kindling a nice little fire in the pit of his stomach. Taking another drag of his cigarette, he refills his glass, and the second shot follows closely on the heels of the first.

He is angry, lonely and feeling more than a bit sorry for himself, and he knows it. James and Remus had both come to him last night, but he had pushed them away. He'd been sullen and outright rude in an explosive show of temper, but he hadn't been in a mood for either company or consolation of the human kind. They had eyed him warily, nodded and left him, the half bottle of Old Ogdens in the cupboard the only companion he had desired. The Muggle whiskey before him now doesn't have the same bite, but it's smooth and warm and a temporary boon to the emptiness.

Emptiness made even hollower by his aborted visit earlier. He should not have gone to see James. That had been a mistake. Things were different now, and it was best to leave the past lie, revisited only in the ghosts of memory.

 

~~~*~~~

He had awoken twice that first night after he'd run away. Echoes of screams and curses chased him from his slumber the first time, and he had thrown back the covers in a panic, the darkness pressing down on him, suffocating, and leaving him disoriented. He had flinched at the touch of a hand on his bare arm, and then James was there, whispering his name, brushing his sweaty hair back from his damp forehead, putting an arm around his shoulder and gently easing him back down to the pillows.

He had initially tried to push James away, but James had quietly scolded him and pulled him closer, arm slung across his chest, and tucked Sirius' head under his chin. James had then made a number of shushing noises, and the nonsensical murmurs were a soothing buzz in his ear as he'd gradually drifted back to sleep.

He came awake again some hours later in the predawn hush, rising into that ethereal space between waking and dreaming, vaguely aware of the long, lanky body curled up before him. He breathed in deeply, rubbing his cheek against the soft, mussed hair, its scent familiar and reassuring. His hand idly grazed a sharp hipbone, lingered over soft, downy skin, and he pressed closer, rubbing himself languidly against the mosaic of textures: soft, smooth roundness, hard angular bone, rough cotton.

"Lily," a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Mmmm. Shhh," he murmured, rocking his hips while his hand gently trailed over hip and belly, long warm fingers caressing bare, sleep-warmed skin.

"Padfoot?" The voice sounded slightly more awake now.

"M'here. S'ok. Shhh." His fingers slipped lower, exploring, sliding underneath the cotton pyjamas, navigating though the coarse hair and lightly pressing into the skin beneath, knuckles skimming along the smooth, hard cock.

"Sirius!" A hand seized his wrist, halting his exploratory touches.

"Mmmph? Why'd y'stop?"

"Wake up."

"Wha?"

"I think you're dreaming," James said, his voice husky.

"James?" he croaked. James' hand was still clasped about his wrist where it protruded from James' pyjama bottoms. He froze, hardly daring to breathe.

"You okay? You were, ah…" James trailed off and an awkward silence rose between them.

He was hyperaware of the fact that James still had not released his arm. His trapped fingers twitched, and James gasped, arching his back. James' hips jerked back, pressing against his own aroused cock, and they both inhaled sharply at the contact.

"I'm–"

"I–"

They started to speak at the same time and stopped abruptly, choking out a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a hiccough. His heart was pounding in his chest, his cock, still pressed against James' arse, was throbbing to the same jerky rhythm below, and he realized with a start that James was still very, very hard beneath his fingers.

"Shit," James whispered.

"Yeah," he replied softly. "I'm – shit. This is… James?

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. D' you hate me?"

"No. Course not. Never. I'm just– Were… were you really sleeping?" James asked.

"Yes. No. Sort of. I don't know. I just need…" he trailed off, his voice cracking.

"Need what?" James asked, swallowing audibly.

"I… I need… I – oh, God. I need to…" His gaze dropped briefly down towards his crotch before once again focusing on the shadowy silhouette of James' head, and he nervously licked his lips. "It's not, not, you know. It's just… _Please_. Let me…?"

He felt James take a deep breath and a moment later, the grip on his wrist slowly relaxed. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a ragged half-sob, and buried his face against the back of James' neck. He ran his fingers lightly down the length of James' cock, grazing his balls, drawing out another gasp and jerk of hips from James, then back up to the tip and around, fingers curling, his own hips rocking forward.

"Wait," James choked out, and he froze again. "Wait. Let me…"

James flipped onto his back then turned onto his side so they were facing each other. James slowly reached out towards him, palm flat against his belly, fingertips exploring the unfamiliar territory and fanning out to stroke tentatively over his jutting hipbones. He relaxed under the touch, nodding, and James grasped the waistband of his pyjamas, tugging them down his thighs.

"Er, easier this way," James whispered.

He nodded again, wriggling to help free the bunched material underneath, and released his own hold to pull James' pyjamas down as well.

"I –"

"Shhh," he said, reaching once again for James. "S'okay. Relax. Yes, that's it. Just like that. Oh! Oh, yes. Close your eyes now," he whispered, closing his own heavy-lidded eyes in turn.

The sleepy dawn air was filled with soft gasps and moans, the rustle of bare skin against sheets and the slick glide of flesh on flesh. He could feel James' breath on his face, and the earlier fear and need that had pooled in his stomach eased as the sweet feel of friction heightened, his hips moving back and forth instinctively. James' cock between his fingers felt at once alien and familiar, as did James' hand on his own cock, but there was comfort in the touch. James was safety, and that was far more important than simple pleasure of the flesh. A different kind of love; His best friend, his sanctuary, his brother.

~~~*~~~

 

"All right, Guv?"

Sirius glances suspiciously over at the man who has spoken, sitting on the adjacent stool. He is much older, mid- to late-forties or so, full pint of bitter in front of him, definitely a Muggle, and the expression on his face is one of concern, not menace. He relaxes and nods at the man and, on impulse, offers him a fag.

"Ta," the man says, gesturing towards the blue lighter and waiting for Sirius' nod before picking it up and lighting the cigarette.

"Just having a real shite day is all," he says, lighting his own cigarette and blowing out a stream of blue-grey smoke.

"Ah. Had plenty of them meself. Whisky'll cure what ails yeh," the man replies, lifting his glass and gesturing towards the bottle.

"That was my plan," he says wryly, pouring out another three fingers and for a few minutes they both sit there, drinking and smoking in a companionable silence.

"Sure looks like you're out on the piss," the man says as Sirius pours more whiskey into his glass. "Suppose you're not up for a chat about footy? Spurs'r showing some good quality. Might have a chance at the Cup this year, though s'too bad the New West Stand isn't gonna be open 'til next year."

He looks at him blankly, no clue as to what a spur or a west stand is, and the man sighs with what looks a little like regret.

"Right. Shite day." The man stubs the butt of his cigarette out in the ashtray, gets to his feet and picks up his pint. "Cheers then. And Happy Christmas to yeh."

"Happy Christmas," he replies, and turns back to his whisky, tossing down a rather large swig. It's not that the Muggle had been bad company. He simply has no idea what the man had been blathering on about and isn't in the mood for conversation that requires concentration.

A roar of laughter explodes from a table in the far corner of the pub, and there is a man singing wildly off-key, slurring his words. He has no Christmas cheer to offer, but he raises his glass in a mock salute and downs the remaining dregs. Christmas has never brought him much joy, and he can't help think of the irony of the situation. He'd actually allowed himself to have a sliver of hope this year. He refills his glass yet again and takes another drink, spilling some of it down his chin and onto his shirt. He dabs ineffectively at his shirt, wipes the drip from his chin, dries his hand on his jeans, and lifts his glass once again to his lips.

Hope is something he has never mastered. Wishing and hoping were for the weak. The strong don't need to hope: They act and never look back. That philosophy had seen him through countless years. He has to believe it, live it, because the few times in his life he has faltered, he hasn't much enjoyed the consequences. He has become an expert at looking in the mirror and seeing only what he needs to see reflecting back.

Regulus, on the other hand – Regulus knew of hope. Regulus had tried to give it to him, but in his arrogance, he had repeatedly spurned the gift. He swallows more whisky, trying to expunge the sour taste of regret from his mouth.

 

~~~*~~~

He had seen him arrive at Platform 9 ¾, but he hadn't spoken to him. He'd tried to catch his eye once or twice but Regulus either hadn't seen him or was purposely avoiding him. And so it had been for more than a week. He'd watched him surreptitiously across the tables in the Great Hall, but any time he'd seen him in the halls, Regulus had been surrounded by his friends or other house mates whom he'd had to refrain from hexing just for sport. He had finally decided it would be best to send an owl.

_Friday. 9:00 p.m. Greenhouse Two._

He hadn't signed it. Regulus would know he had sent it. What he didn't know was whether Regulus would come, but he thought he would. He hoped he would.

He wasn't sure why he'd felt such a need to see his brother, to explain something that needed no explanation. Regulus had been there, after all. He knew what happened, knew why he'd had no other choice but to leave, knew he could and would never go back. He was alternately anxious and irritated. After all, he was the elder brother. Regulus should be the one concerned for him, not the other way around. True, they had never shown much solidarity in school; there was a distinct lack of a visible friendship only exacerbated by the animosity between their houses. Nevertheless, despite all that, there was a bond between them, an unbreakable link regardless of the severed ties with the rest of his family, or his mother's orders.

If his friends noticed his irritability and the continuous scowl on his face, they said nothing.

He arrived at the greenhouse twenty minutes early, disarming the locking charms with practiced ease. He appropriated a stool from one of the tables, dragging it closer to the door, and sat there in the dark, affecting casualness and ignoring the rustle of leaves and the scrape of sentient limbs from nearby plants, waiting.

Regulus was prompt as always. He entered quietly, closed the door behind him, and barely flinched when Sirius sent a locking spell past his shoulder.

The two stared at each other across the empty five feet of space that separated them. Pale moonlight emerged from a cloud and filtered in through the translucent glass roofing, illuminating the expressionless masks on each of their faces.

"So you're just going to stand there? You don't have anything to say to me?"

"You summoned me, Sirius. If I had something to say, I would have availed myself of the opportunity," Regulus said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Don't be haughty and smug with me, just because you're a prefect now. Fucking swot," Sirius scoffed.

"Insults? Did Lupin have to endure such charming behaviour on your part? It's a wonder you still consider him a friend, or he you."

"Leave Remus out of this! He's no concern of yours," he retorted.

Regulus raised his eyebrows. "I see. So, what is it you wanted, Sirius? I've no time for childish nonsense and, as you so graciously pointed out, I am a prefect. Breaking into the greenhouses is not precisely suitable behaviour."

"Childish nonsense? I'm not the one who's been ignoring you for nearly two weeks."

"Is that what this is all about? Fine," Regulus said, "I won't ignore you. Can I go now?"

"Have you always been such a selfish bastard?"

"No, Sirius. That's your job."

He stood up, fists clenched at his side. "I'm selfish? Yes, of course. How very _selfish_ of me to put self-preservation ahead of you and your whinging. You know damn well why I left. Why I had to leave. I even asked you to come with me!" he shouted, not caring at that moment if he roused the entire castle.

"Oh, right. 'Come with me or get the fuck out of my way' is quite the invitation," Regulus retorted, his composure slipping. "You bloody left me! After you promised you wouldn't!"

"I never promised–"

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I didn't!" Sirius roared and lunged.

Caught off balance, Regulus stumbled, and within moments the two were rolling on the floor wrestling, grabbing and ripping at each other's robes, scratching and biting and kicking like a couple of skirts, cursing under their breaths, trying to overpower the other, locked in a dangerous embrace.

He didn't know when things shifted. One minute Regulus was screaming that he hated him for leaving, and the next they were frantically rubbing against each other, both of them hard, full of pent up anger and need. Hands desperately scrabbling for purchase, they pulled and tore at each others robes, his pants were ripped free, Regulus' already in tatters. He rolled on top now with no resistance, and they both gasped as warm bare skin, oiled with sweat from their exertion, and hard cocks met in a clash of friction.

Regulus wrapped long legs around his and arched his back, hips driving upward and keeping pace with his own grinding, circular thrusts. The intensity was staggering, and he bit his lip to stifle a cry and buried his face in Regulus' shoulder.

Time had frozen around him, all of his senses focused on the raw pleasure of soon-to-be-sated hunger, sharp as bruising hipbones against his belly, edged with anger, resentment, and the bittersweet tang of need and reassurance and forgiveness.

Regulus was breathing heavily beneath him in wheezing, panting gasps, his sweaty palms and fingers pushing against his lower back and arse. His knees were digging painfully into the floor, but he could not stop or shift his position. He felt a rush of warm, slippery wetness against his belly and thrust even faster, the slick heat sweetening the friction between them.

Regulus was still moving his hips, urging him on. "Come on, Sirius, that's it. I'm here. Come for me."

That was all it took, and a moment later, he was lying flat atop his brother, face still resting against his shoulder, Regulus gently stroking his hair and the back of his head.

"I'm sorry," Regulus whispered.

"I'm sorry, too," he replied, voice muffled. He shifted slightly to the left and rolled off, pulling Regulus towards him so that they both lay on their sides, facing each other and looking into each other's eyes for the first time since their erstwhile wrestling match had begun.

"It's not your fault. I knew you had to go," Regulus said. "I was just angry."

"I wanted you to come with me," Sirius said.

"I know. But I can't follow where you lead, Sirius. We've always travelled different paths, you and I."

"But–"

"But nothing," Regulus interrupted. "You know this better than I do. I only hope that where you're going is the right place – for you."

"I don't know. All I know is that Grimmauld Place wasn't. The right place, I mean."

"I know," Regulus whispered sadly. "I know."

~~~*~~~

 

His head is beginning to feel fuzzy, heavy. If regret still lingers in the recesses of his mouth, he cannot taste it now. He fumbles another fag from the pack and lights it, idly wondering if Regulus was ever lonely walking his chosen path. Despite his own adopted family – James and his parents, Remus, Peter – he has been far lonelier than he cares to admit. He takes another drag and shrugs, trying to dislodge the cloak of self-pity that seems to have settled around his shoulders.

Through the mounting haze in his mind, he suddenly, inexplicably, remembers the letter Regulus had sent to him, scrawled but still elegantly written for all that. It had been their final correspondence before the two years of anguished silence that had ended abruptly in false hope, fear, death, and this day of decadence and self-induced loneliness, the words inscribed on his heart in blood, more indelible than the ink on parchment with which they'd been printed, still achingly clear despite his foggy, slurred vision.

> _There's something I have to do. I know you won't approve, but I have to do this and nothing you can say will change my mind. ~~Please understand~~ No. You won't understand. You can't possibly. You always were the stronger one, even though you can be monumentally stupid about things. And people. Certain people at any rate._
> 
> ~~I'm sorry~~ I am sorry. ~~Don't try~~ You can't follow where I lead any more than I could you, but I promise you I know where I'm going.
> 
> I love you.
> 
> Always.
> 
> Regulus

Regulus had been right. He hadn't understood. Regulus had joined up with Voldemort. Voldemort! Oh, how he had raged at that note. He had trashed his flat, and then he'd gone out on a berserker rampage, all but incinerating a Muggle car that had nearly run him down, and trashing a Muggle bar after drinking several galleons' worth of spirit. He had nearly been arrested by Muggle police officers after refusing to pay his exorbitant tab and using his wand to break everything he could manage to point it at, in plain view of the Muggles at the bar no less, and was too pissed to perform a proper _Obliviate_. Somehow, James, Peter and Remus had found him before any of the Ministry lackeys could be alerted, which was how he had escaped relatively unscathed, and was also how he had found out about his rather dodgy activities a few days later by default.

He has often wondered if he had Obliviated himself accidentally, but whatever the case, he is thankful that he has no real memory of the sordid details of that afternoon and evening. He had woken in the spare room at James and Lily's flat, Apparated home, and barricaded himself in his flat for three days before grudgingly allowing James to come in, under threat of having his new motorbike set afire.

He gulps down more whisky, remembering the pain and grief, the utter betrayal he'd felt, and regrets his stubborn pride. The whisky is supposed to dull the pain, not sharpen it; is supposed to make him forget, not remember with considerable clarity. Obviously, he hasn't drunk nearly enough, and sets out to remedy this, pouring even more into the glass and carelessly sloshing some over the side in the process.

Another cigarette, another shot; an effortless routine. The bottle is more than half-empty now and declining fast. There's a fog clouding his vision, and everything, even time, seems to be slowing. He is suddenly fascinated with his hand, amazed and entranced with the short hairs sprouting just below his knuckles, the ridge on his thumbnail, flat and smooth on one side, thicker and slightly warped on the other.

He's roused from his near-stupor by a purring voice in his ear and the irritating scent of flowers that makes him wrinkle his nose. He raises his head and is assailed by a face full of riotous blonde hair and full, sticky red lips. The lips are moving, and it is a minute before he can make sense of what they are saying.

"Gorgeous bloke like you all alone on Christmas Eve? Terrible waste, that. What's your name, love?"

"S'rus," he mumbles, eyes fixed on the bright scarlet mouth.

"Cyrus? You're much too pretty for such a name. A little beaten up, but you'll do. Buy me a drink?" she asks, though the question is rhetorical. Without waiting for a reply, she signals the barman for a glass and pours herself a healthy measure of whisky. "Good stuff, that," she says, setting her glass down, large red lip prints staining the rim.

"So, what are we to do with you, pretty-boy?" She leans in closer, and he can smell her perfume wafting up from her prominently displayed cleavage. The scent is overwhelming, cloying, and he turns away, scrabbling for a fag, eager for the acrid smoke to drive the choking flowers away.

Her hand reaches out, and she removes two from the package, placing them both between those tacky lips and flicking the lighter with her thumb. She inhales slowly and removes one of the cigarettes, its filter now stained red, and sets it between his dry lips. "There you go, love."

The fag feels waxy between his lips, but the smoke tastes the same, and he breathes it in, revelling. He exhales directly into her breasts, and she laughs, her hand suddenly touching his cheek, playing with his hair, twirling the dark strands around her finger. She leans in closer and whispers seductively in his ear.

"You look so lonely, pretty-boy. I know what you need."

He mumbles something, but has no idea what he's saying. The fag is dangling from his lips, and his hands are clenched tightly into fists in his lap. He's frozen in place, surrounded by a miasma of odours: flowers, sweat, hairspray, the stale smells of whiskey, flat beer and cigarettes. He can't breathe.

"A long, slow fuck," she purrs, licking his neck. "Mmmm, you taste nice. Come home and fuck me, Cyrus. So here it is, Merry Christmas. Just like the song. Let's go have some fun then, yeah?"

The fag falls from his lips, bounces once on his jeans and drops to the floor. He stares after it, hand slowly reaching after to grasp it, much too slow to catch it. He looks at his hand and turns his palm upward, staring at the deep indentations marring the surface, crescents, half-moons, tracks a deep red across the pale flesh.

Moons. Little moons. Little moonies. Moonies. Moony.

Moony!

He glances up quickly, and a wave of dizziness washes over him. He closes his eyes and a moment later there are lips against his, caked and gummy, a wet tongue tasting of stale liquor and mint, thrusting wildly, and suddenly he is rising from his stool, roughly pushing her away and stumbling for the exit, fags, lighter and bottle of whisky forgotten in his haste.

The cold air and pouring rain against his face is refreshing, and he gulps huge draughts of clean, winter air, but it's not enough to stave off the nausea rising in his gullet. He stumbles around the corner of the bar into the alley, an alley full of rubbish bins and rooting vermin, the rancid odour of urine and rotting trash and, after a brief moment, stale whisky and bile.

 

~*~

 

He wakes in a stifling darkness, his head is throbbing, his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, he is sweating, clammy skin sticking to even clammier sheets, and he's dying for a piss. He fumbles a bit frantically to free himself from the nest of sheets and blankets, and as he sits up and puts his feet on the floor, feeling light-headed and more than a bit queasy, he realizes he has no idea where the hell he is.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, eyes closed, pressing his palms almost painfully into his temples, and grasps frantically for a memory, any memory that might provide a clue: rain, cold, a bar, whisky, more whisky, a Muggle woman with wild hair, sticky red lips and a cheap putrid scent wafting from a low-cut blouse…

_Oh, fuck! Please tell me I didn't…_

He tentatively reaches a hand back to feel the bed behind to him, patting the blankets. Empty. He's alone. Well, that's a good sign. As good a sign as he could hope for waking up – naked! Christ, he's definitely starkers, and he's definitely in a strange bed. He opens his eyes and waits for them to adjust to the darkness, swaying slightly.

There's a faint glow coming from a fireplace a few feet beyond the front of the bed. The bed itself appears to be set into an alcove of some sort, enclosed by three walls, the wall directly in front of him sporting a window still dark with night, with barely enough room on this one side for a small dresser. His wand is lying on the dresser top next to a small lamp, and he clasps the wand in his hand, grateful for its presence. If he's been abducted, at least he knows it wasn't by Death Eaters. Had that been the case, not only would his wand have been confiscated, he probably wouldn't be awake, much less alive at the moment.

He is still contemplating standing when his bladder decides that he has ignored it for much too long. Not left with much of a choice, he stands, legs a bit shaky, head a lot woozy, but he lights the tip of his wand and sets off to find a loo. It isn't far – just beyond the alcove, and he closes the door behind him, exhaling in relief.

Grateful to find not only a bath, but also a sink next to the toilet, he quickly relieves himself, and moves to the sink, turning on the tap and splashing cool water on his face. He purposely avoids looking at his reflection in the small mirror, and contemplates a hot shower. A tentative knock on the door startles him.

"Err, just a minute," he croaks, his throat still a bit raw. He looks around for something to swathe his bare hips in, but there is nothing save for a small flannel hanging on the side of the sink. Sighing and vowing to take his punishment like a man, he cracks open the door and almost falls over in surprise, and not a little gratitude, clinging to the doorknob for support.

"Moony?"

"Expecting someone else, were you?" Remus is grinning wryly.

"To be honest, I had no idea what I was expecting."

"It's no wonder. You were quite pissed out of your skull. Rather pathetic, really, but," Remus' voice softens, "understandable under the circumstances. How do you feel?"

"Like shite," he admits

"Appropriate, considering you look like shite as well."

He winces. "Always were astute with your observations."

"Yes, well," Remus says, wrinkling his nose, "you do reek a bit, too. More than a bit. Really, Pads, what did you get up to last night?"

"Whisky, it seems. Muggle whisky."

"Lovely. There's some headache potion in the cabinet if you'd like and a spare toothbrush. I thought you might like to have a bath or at least a shower as well," Remus says, handing over a towel and a clean but worn pair of tracksuit bottoms.

"How did I –?"

Remus presses a quick finger to his lips, silencing him. "Bathe first. Questions later."

He smiles at this. "Yes, all right. Wouldn't want to upset your delicate sensibilities."

"Too bad you didn't feel that way earlier," Remus says, and chuckles, closing the door and leaving him alone.

He leans his forehead against the door and takes a deep breath, thanking Providence, Merlin, or whoever it was who had watched over him last night long enough to see him safe. Remus probably hadn't been too happy to find a totally pissed Sirius Black on his doorstep, but he is obviously still friend enough to take good care of him in spite of it.

He turns on the tap in the bath, sets the water temperature and presses the lever, deciding a shower would be more appropriate since he was less likely to fall asleep or drown on his feet. Rubbing his hand over his face, he realizes that the skin on his cheek is smooth. Peering into the small mirror and grimacing at the alarming state of his reflection, he sees no sign of the cuts and bruises he remembers earning the day before. Remus must have healed them. Shaking his head, a slight smile on his lips, he climbs gratefully into the tub.

Feeling slightly more human after his shower and a generous helping of Serafina Sephalalgia's Sure-fire Headache Helper, he exits the bath and finds the fire rekindled, a small lamp lit, and Remus setting out two mugs, teapot and tea tray on a shabby wooden table. He raises his eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a wry half-smile.

"I'm fresh out of Ogden's," Remus replies, pushing away a thin blanket and settling on the small couch. "Have a seat."

He walks over to the couch and sits down. Remus had obviously been sleeping on the couch before he'd woken him with his trip to the loo, dressed as he was in threadbare checked, cotton drawstring trousers and a thin, faded Holyhead Harpies t-shirt, hair tousled, and his skin still flushed slightly with sleep. He watches as Remus pours tea for the both of them, adding a teaspoon of sugar and a dash of milk to Sirius' cup.

"Ta, Remus," he says, lifting the mug and taking a tentative sip. It is Darjeeling and surprisingly welcome and soothing. He takes another sip and puts down his mug, looking around the flat in earnest now that there is light to see by. With a slight pang, he realizes that he has never actually been inside Remus' flat before.

The front wall is the kitchen: countertop, cooker, sink and drying rack, small Muggle refrigerator, and a few cabinets – small but sufficient. Low sagging bookshelves line one wall and there is a small battered desk in the corner, every surface of it covered with parchment and old, heavy, cloth-covered books – the only untidy spot in the entire room. Remus' bed and dresser are set off in the alcove at the far back corner, and the couch, side lamp table and coffee table make up the rest of the meagre furnishings. There are a few braided rugs scattered on the floor and the small brick fireplace set in the back wall is slowly spreading its warmth throughout the small space.

On the mantle are two photos: one is of Remus' parents and the other is of the four of them. Even in the dim light he recognizes the photo, and watches as his photo-self slings an arm around photo-Remus' shoulder and smiles at him, while James, on his other side, elbows him, and Peter, standing beside James, giggles. It was taken the summer between Fifth and Sixth year at the Potters' house. It's almost startling to see the ease in Remus' posture and the blitheness of his own. He reluctantly turns his eyes away from the cheerful display and looks down at his hands resting in his lap. He turns his palms slightly upward and is surprised to find faint traces of half-moon crescents still evident there.

"Sorry I… Well, I'm not quite sure how I got here to be honest, but I'm sorry for inconveniencing you. You didn't have to give up your bed."

"It's all right. I didn't mind."

"Do you know…? How _did_ I get here?"

"I don't know. I have no idea how you managed to walk at all, much less how you got here. I wasn't even positive you remembered where I live," Remus says lightly, sipping his tea.

"I was that bad?" Sirius asks, wincing.

"Worse," Remus replies with a slight smile. "I was… reading. You must have tried to use your wand before you collapsed on the pavement by the door. You triggered the protection spells I had set."

He raises an eyebrow. "Protection spells? But, this is a Muggle building. A Muggle neighbourhood, isn't it?"

"Yes, but that's the point. I'm not concerned about Muggles burgling the place," Remus says gesturing around the small flat. "There's nothing for them to steal, is there? The spells simply detect magic. Only a wizard can trigger them."

"Always so clever, Moony."

"Yes, well, I had one or two rather devious influences in my youth, you know."

He laughs, and the sound is strange to his ears. It feels as if it's been far too long since he's had reason to laugh so effortlessly, and a frown steals across his face when he remembers why.

"I'm sorry. About Regulus. We were friends of a sort once, in school. I'd have gone with you, to pay my respects, but…" Remus says, shrugging his shoulders.

"I didn't know you were friends with my brother," he says, a little more sharply than he intended. Regulus had been a Death Eater after all, attempted defection or no, and he hadn't yet told anyone except James and Dumbledore about the latter.

"We were both prefects, Sirius, and he was kind to me despite the animosity between our houses. We spoke on occasion. He would ask after you sometimes," Remus says quietly. "Anyway, despite… what happened later, I liked him very much."

"Oh. Right. I'd forgotten about the prefect thing. Er, thank you. And thanks for… minding me."

"I know things haven't been easy for you these past few days. I'm glad I could do something to help, small as it may be," Remus says.

He waves his hand absently, uncomfortable with the veiled implications of that statement. "You know, I've never been here before. Been inside, I mean. It's… cosy."

Remus shrugs. "It's cheap."

"That may well be, but I meant that it suits you."

"Cheap and shabby suits me," Remus says wryly. "At least the neighbourhood is decent. And it's close to my new job."

"I didn't mean – You got a new job?"

"In October."

"You didn't tell me," he says, a tinge of accusation in his voice, one more thing Remus forgot to mention. He idly wonders how many other secrets Remus has. Time and circumstance has slowly been leaving its mark on their friendship.

"Nothing to tell. I need the money, the Muggles don't ask questions about why I need days off around the full moon."

"You still might have mentioned it," he says.

"You could have asked," Remus counters.

"I have to ask? I never needed to ask before," he says and pauses, the revelation of Remus' prior companionship with Regulus still niggling. Shrugging it off for the moment, he continues. "It's not as if you invite me over – in fact, except for the moons and the Order, I hardly ever see you anymore. Not socially anyway. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you've been hiding from me."

"With the way things are now, everyone is hiding. And I've never stopped you from visiting Sirius. You can hardly blame me for that."

"You never hid like this at school. Well," he amends, "at least then you were still in plain sight. I could always find you."

"Things were different at school," Remus says. "Our lives were different – _we_ were different. And really, Sirius, how ironic of you to accuse me of something you've been doing for years yourself."

"What are you going on about? I don't hide," he snaps.

"Don't you?"

Sirius is quiet, sipping his tea and studying his hands. The half-moon crescents etched into his palm are more defined. He must have been clenching his fists again without realizing it. He hadn't meant to argue with Remus, especially now. He hates arguing with Remus in general, but sometimes the man is just so damned frustrating. "Fine. Tell me how I hide then."

Remus pauses and licks his lips nervously, as if deciding whether to elaborate. He looks up, meeting Sirius' eye and exhales.

"James," Remus says simply.

"What about James?"

"Did you think I didn't know about you and James?" Remus asks softly. "All of those nights you couldn't bear to be alone with yourself. How many times did you stand beside my bed for ages, just staring? And just when I'd think that maybe…" He sighs. "You'd always turn and go to James instead. You weren't quite as discreet as you may have thought."

He freezes, eyes wide, heart thumping in his chest. The hand holding the mug shakes, and he's grateful that it's nearly empty. Christ!

"I have to admit, I was rather astonished to find you at my door tonight," Remus says, voice even.

"Remus." He takes a shaky breath and sets down the mug. "It wasn't like that with James. He… I… We…" He sighs audibly and runs his fingers through his still-damp hair. "We never…"

Remus raises an eyebrow, and he feels an urge to strangle him.

"God damn it, Remus, it wasn't about… about _sex_!" he splutters. "It wasn't even about James, really. Not in that sense, anyway. I was never in love with him or anything. He just helped when… I… needed him."

"You needed him. I see."

Sirius rolls his eyes and plunges on with his muddled explanation. "James loved Lily. Still does in case you hadn't noticed. It wasn't… he helped me. He was safe. It wasn't like _that_. Not – Damn it. Not like it was with us – especially that time you and I… I never even bloody kissed him!

"Not once. With you it was different." His voice is softer, and he looks at Remus, almost pleading, suddenly wanting to make him understand, now, after years of secrets, years of hiding inside himself, running from himself, or trying to, and never getting anywhere. A spark of something he vaguely recognizes as hope flares.

_You always were the stronger one, even though you can be monumentally stupid about things. And people. Certain people at any rate._

The words from Regulus' letter flash through his mind again, and it feels as if he's been stabbed in the heart. Regulus had known even then. Whether from something Remus had said to him, or from his own astute observations, he'd known. And as usual, Regulus had been right. Stupid smug bastard.

Remus turns away, silent, rises from his place on the sofa and walks over to the desk, idly rummaging through the clutter there, straightening books and piles of parchment.

Sirius sits in a dazed silence, deliberating, and finally realizes that Remus still hasn't spoken. "Not going to say anything?" he asks.

"What's to say, Sirius? You made it perfectly clear how you felt after that night. Or rather, how you didn't feel. Was I supposed to beg? Get you drunk again and throw myself at you?"

"I didn't know what to do, damn it!" He cracks his knuckles, ignoring the way Remus winces at each _pop_, too anxious to sit still. "I –" He stops and stands up abruptly. "It _did_ mean something to you."

Remus stares at him as if he has never seen him before. "Of course it meant something to me, you idiot! Or do you think I just go around shagging my best friends on a whim? I'm not you."

He winces. "No, of course I don't think that. I…" His voice trails off, and he shakes his head to clear it. "But you never said – you just… hid – shut yourself off again like always. Acted as if nothing had happened. As if it didn't matter."

"What choice did I have? You'd already humiliated me enough, don't you think? And then…" Remus' voice is choked, and he turns his face away, swallowing hard.

Sirius' eyes are wide, and he sinks back down onto the sofa. "I… Oh, Christ." The sharp bones of his elbows dig into his knees as he leans forward and drops his head into trembling hands. He feels queasy and light-headed, and he closes his eyes, desperate to stop his world from spinning.

"I never meant to hurt you, Moony. You were so… so different, so intense. I'd never expected you to be so..." He raises his head to find Remus watching him from across the room. "The way you looked at me… the way you trusted me… I didn't deserve it. I still remember so clearly – I wasn't nearly as drunk as I pretended that night, and then… then I really fucked things up. And now it's been – fuck!" He rechecks his mental calculations and the number astounds him. "Almost four years? That can't possibly be right."

"Three years, ten months, two weeks and a few odd days," Remus whispers and turns his gaze away, his fingers idly caressing the carefully stitched cover of an ancient tome. "Doesn't matter now," he adds, his voice louder but still unsteady. "That part of my life is over. Has been over for a long time now. I've moved on."

Remus steps away from the desk and turns around, staring into the fire.

"Have you?" He rises from the couch on weak-kneed legs, walks over to where Remus is standing and stops, barely an arm's length away. He reaches out a still-shaking hand and touches Remus' shoulder, feeling sharp bone and taut, wiry muscle beneath the thin cotton.

Remus takes a deep breath and steps closer to the fire. "Don't do this, Sirius. You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk. Have you really moved on?" he asks again, closing the distance once again.

Remus sighs and shrugs his shoulders in defeat. "It doesn't matter. I'm seeing someone else. He was here earlier when you…"

"Oh." He feels his breath leave him, and there is a sudden sharp pain where his stomach used to be. "How long?"

"Not long. A month, if that."

"I'm sorry I ruined your evening then," he says, looking around for his clothes, the knife in his gut twisting slowly. "I should go."

"If you like," Remus answers, voice barely a whisper.

He spies his clothes, spelled clean and folded on a shelf, boots set neatly beneath on the floor, and starts towards them. He stops suddenly and turns; Remus is still standing facing the fire, back to him.

"Do you love him?" he asks.

"What?" Remus says, turning to face him.

"Do… Do you love him? This bloke of yours. Does he make you happy?" he asks, swallowing hard.

"Oh. No. I don't love him. I've never loved any of them. How could I?"

"How– What? What do you mean by that?" Sirius asks. He knows he's stalling, but he can't help himself, and the thought of other men touching Remus, kissing Remus, making love to Remus, suddenly makes him feel sick and angry and bitter. "Any of them? Just how many were there?"

"It's none of your damn business! Who the hell are you to tell me how I should live? Who I'm allowed to fuck?"

Remus' eyes are blazing, and the look of fury on that usually serene face is enough to make Sirius choke on his reply. His jaw drops, and he feels completely hollow, so full of loss and so very alone that it makes him want to weep. He swallows hard, unable to fill the emptiness burning in the pit of his belly, and turns his face away in shame. Fuck hope. What good had hope ever done for him in his miserable life?

He's not sure just how much time passes when he feels a hand on his wrist. He jerks his arm away angrily and reaches for his clothes.

"My God. You're jealous," Remus says, a note of incredulity in his voice.

"Am not," he snaps, fumbling with his shirt.

"You're positively, completely mad with jealousy!" Remus says louder.

Unable to put it on properly, he flings his shirt to the floor and turns around, hands and teeth clenched tightly, eyes narrowed, and leans forward so his face is mere inches from Remus.

"I. Am. _Not_. Jealous!" he shouts, fully aware of the lie that it is.

Apparently, Remus is aware of it as well. His face breaks into a smile, and he laughs. "It never ceases to amaze me how someone as intelligent as you can be so incredibly daft."

He is livid. How dare Remus laugh at him, insult him like this? He wants to hit him. He wants to clout him one right in his smug little face, wants him to feel the agony that he's feeling right now, wants to–

Wants to kiss him.

_Is_ kissing him, lips and tongue greedy, stealing the breath from Remus' lungs, stealing everything he can taste and touch – a pickpocket, a thief. Wanting, needing, and taking without remorse, he moans when Remus bites fiercely at his lips, sucks his tongue into his own mouth, twines fingers in his hair, and pulls, their bodies pressing tightly together, hands groping and tugging. Pain and pleasure and desire coiling inside of him, lust, affection, hope…

"Sirius," Remus breathes and takes a step back, shuddering. His fingers are absently stroking his lower lip, a stunned expression on his face.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Moony. I know I shouldn't have…" Catching the expression on Remus' face, he blanches. "Was it that bad?" he whispers.

"Idiot. Git," Remus says, lips twitching, quirking into that half smile he frequently wore during their school years; the one that plainly meant Remus was torn between admiration and exasperation, when he didn't know whether to laugh or clout him. Sometimes, he remembers fondly, Remus had done both. "Right bloody fucking prat, you are."

"Yes. About many things. Too many things." He lifts both hands and places them on Remus' shoulders, squeezes, his thumbs gently rubbing over the angular collarbones. He leans forward and gently runs his tongue along the kiss-swollen lips, nuzzles Remus' cheek, noses aside the tousled hair, presses kisses to the soft, warm skin of his neck.

Remus shivers beneath his touch, but does not pull away.

"_Please_," he whispers, his breath a delicate kiss to Remus' ear. "Please. I need you, Moony."

Remus stiffens. "I can't give you what you _need_, Sirius. Obviously I never could."

"I – no, that's not what I… fuck, yes it is." He pulls back and looks Remus in the eye, the firelight a flickering halo of orange, copper and gold in his hair. "I _do_ need you, Remus. But that's not all of it."

He looks down at his feet and bites his lip, gathering his courage and suddenly wishing he had drunk something stronger than tea. "I've been a fool. And a bloody coward." He lifts his gaze again and takes a deep breath. "You could have. I didn't let you.

"Yes, I'm jealous. I'm fucking envious of everyone who's ever touched you that hasn't been me. And it's my own bleeding fault. Not yours. Never yours.

"I want you, Remus. I have for a long time, but I didn't know how to... I couldn't..." His hands are gentle against Remus' cheek, and he cups his jaw, the rasp of downy stubble real and immediate beneath his fingers. "I've been an idiot, I know that. I – I don't want to run anymore."

Remus licks his lips and stares back at him, so close Sirius can feel his breath on his face. He doesn't know what Remus is looking for, but he knows when Remus finds it.

"Kiss me," Remus whispers.

Their kiss this time is no less urgent, but much more gentle for all that, a slower re-acquaintance, tongues mapping out once-familiar terrain, lips soft, sweet, possessing, claiming their prize.

His hands are everywhere at once, and his feet are moving, backing Remus up until he's flat against the wall. He fumbles with the hem of Remus' t-shirt, pulling and tugging upward, freeing his arms, but reluctant to stop kissing him even for the few seconds it would take to pull it over his head.

In contrast to the tenderness of their kisses, his hands are rough on Remus' bare chest, no light brush of fingertips but rather a heavy pawing, fingers twisting nipples sharply but not painfully. Remus gasps and bites Sirius' lip, drawing blood, the coppery taste spurring them both on, cocks hard and trapped beneath their clothing as they thrust their hips against each other.

"Oh God, wait," Remus gasps, trying to worm his hand between them. "Want to feel you…"

"Not… can't wait…" he whispers back, mouth moving to Remus' neck, his collarbone, his chest, running his tongue over the pinkish nipples, stiff with arousal, licking, sucking, biting everywhere he can reach. "Can't. So good, so mmphm," he murmurs against damp skin.

Remus is so lovely right now, leaning his head back against the wall, jaw slack and mouth open, moaning softly, t-shirt loosely encircling his neck, back arched, and hips thrusting. He can feel Remus' hands pressing against his shoulders, urging him lower, and he circles his arms around Remus' hips, fingers sliding beneath the waistband to cup and squeeze his arse while his lips and tongue trail along a jutting hipbone, lower still, mouthing over the cotton-covered bulge.

"Off!" Remus gasps. "Take them – Oh God, Pads, _please_!"

Remus' hand lurches towards the drawstrings of his trousers, and Sirius bites his knuckle softly, pushing the hand away with his nose.

"No you don't. Mine," he says, and Remus' hand pulls away and twines in his hair. He takes the end of the tied string between his teeth and tugs sharply, freeing the tie. Releasing the string, he fastens his teeth onto the waistband and draws it out and down, nose barely grazing the hard cock beneath as it bobs free.

"Ohhh, yessss," Remus hisses when Sirius nuzzles against his sac, his hands quickly lowering the trousers down to Remus' ankles

He laps at the soft wrinkly skin, tasting a hint of salt, breathes in the scent of arousal and musk, and sucks the sensitive flesh into his mouth, humming softly.

"Please," Remus moans, thrusting his hips forward fiercely.

He smiles inwardly and releases Remus, licking his way across and repeating his actions on the other side, his hands once again fondling Remus' arse, pulling him closer against his face. Remus is practically whimpering now, calling out his name, pleading with Sirius to touch him, begging him to suck his cock, to make him come. With a final bit of teasing suction, he relents, slowly licking his way up the underside of Remus' cock. When he reaches the tip, he swirls his tongue, lapping at the traces of bitter saltiness there. He looks up for a moment, catching Remus' eye, and slowly sucks Remus' cock into his mouth.

He closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of him, drowning in the rich scents and tastes, the contrast of textures: smooth, hard flesh here; soft, ridged skin there; damp coarse hairs tickling his nose. He is so aroused and concentrating so completely that it's a moment before he realizes that Remus is tugging on his hair.

He releases him with a soft wet _pop_ and looks up, questioning.

Remus is panting, and he lowers himself to his knees, finally pulling off the shirt from around his neck and tossing it aside.

"What –"?

Remus kisses him deeply and pulls back, smiling mischievously.

"Don't want to be greedy," Remus says, and gently guides him onto his side, pulling the borrowed trackies off with a flourish.

He watches intently as Remus lies down beside him contrariwise. He glances down, looking over their new position, and raises his eyebrow in fascination. Remus laughs, silencing himself by the simple expedience of reaching his arm around to grab hold of Sirius' arse, and taking the entire length of Sirius's cock into his mouth.

He gasps, instinctively shifting, bending his knees and adjusting his legs. Remus' mouth is warm, wet and inviting, and his tongue is doing something particularly arousing, making his toes curl. Trying to regain coherent thought is nearly impossible, but he reaches a hand out in front of him, finding Remus, still hard. He manoeuvres Remus' leg across his shoulder and leans over to finish what he had started a few moments earlier.

He finds himself distracted at first, caught up in the sensations assailing his own cock, but Remus doesn't relent, and he soon finds that he is unconsciously mirroring Remus' movements, a continuous sucking and licking and shallow thrusting, and concentration is no longer an issue.

So fully immersed in the notion of this simultaneous giving and receiving, his orgasm takes him by surprise, and he arches, drawing back abruptly and nearly overbalancing. Remus grabs onto him firmly and pulls him further into his mouth, sucking gently. He groans, burying his face against Remus' thigh, shaking.

When he recovers enough to draw sufficient breath, he is aware that Remus has released him, the air cool against warm, damp skin. With a strength borne of determination, he pushes Remus onto his back and crawls between his legs, licking and nipping his way up the soft flesh of his thigh. Wetting a finger, he gingerly presses it inside slowly at first, fucking him more roughly when Remus pleads, and lowers his head, engulfing Remus' cock once more, and then Remus is coming, crying out Sirius' name.

He edges his way up Remus' body, licking his lips and rubbing his jaw, and collapses on top of him, heavy-limbed and sated.

Remus chuckles, running his hands up and down Sirius' sweat-slick back. "As much as I love having you on top of me, I'd much prefer the bed beneath me."

"Tosser," he says with affection. "Where's your spirit of adventure?"

"I could say something terribly impudent in response to that, but I think you're quite aware of where it went," Remus teases. "Besides, you weigh more than a newborn erumpent."

"Do not," he says, yawning. "B'sides, s'comfy."

"I need to use the loo," Remus persists

He grumbles something unintelligible and rolls off onto the floor.

"And you can put clean sheets on the bed while I'm indisposed,"

"Bastard," he mumbles, and Remus laughs, rising and getting to his feet.

"You always were a charmer," Remus says, disappearing into the loo and closing the door.

He smiles ruefully, hunts around the floor for his wand, and goes over to see to the bed. Remus has already stripped the old bedding off, so it's a simple flick of his wand to put everything to rights.

He climbs into bed, and Remus joins him a few minutes later, leaning over to kiss him. Sirius pulls him closer, and it's a few minutes before they break apart, both of them smiling, fingers lingering on cheeks and jaw.

He turns away onto his side and Remus spoons behind him, reaching over to clasp his hand, threading their fingers together and giving them a light squeeze.

"Good night," Remus whispers and kisses his shoulder.

He is quiet for moment, thinking. Taking a deep breath, he nuzzles backwards and brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing Remus' knuckles softly.

"Mmmm?" Remus murmurs.

"I had Regulus cremated," he says.

"You did what? Why?" Remus asks, shocked.

"My mother was livid. All of the traditional pureblood burial rituals. She couldn't perform any of them. I'd meant to explain it to her. Not that it would have mattered anyway. Not to her.

"You should know something else. Regulus was killed because he tried to run. To leave the Death Eaters."

"Oh." Remus paused, breathing lightly. "I don't really know what to say. Considering what happened, 'I'm glad to hear that' sounds rather callous."

"I know what you mean. I was glad, relieved, worried… But I was too late to help him."

"I'm sure you did what you could, Sirius. But what does that have to do with having his body cremated?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. I did it because of the Inferi."

"Oh!"

"I… well, if he risked so much to escape from Voldemort, the idea that Voldemort would reclaim him as an Inferi… And I have no doubt he would have done just that, out of spite if not need. An example to the others. It was the only thing I could think to do."

"You did right, Padfoot. You did right," Remus says, kissing the back of his neck. "You didn't fail him. He was a grown wizard, and he made his own choices. I don't know what made him decide to leave Voldemort, but I have no doubt that you had something to do with that decision."

"Maybe. Is it wrong of me to feel guilty?"

"Guilty about what exactly?"

"Feeling happy right now, being here with you, in spite of everything," he says.

"No. I suppose it's natural. I think Regulus would be happy for you."

"You're probably right."

"I usually am," Remus says, thumping Sirius lightly on the chest. "Go to sleep. We have to be up in a few hours if we want to make it over to James and Lily's in time for luncheon."

"Shit! I almost forgot. We'll have to swing by my flat so I can pick up my presents for the sprog," he says, wriggling into a more comfortable position and squeezing their still-entwined fingers.

"I think we can manage that," Remus says, yawning and squeezing back. "You spoil him rotten, you know. But I've got my own plans for spoiling myself, Black."

"Plans?" he asks, smiling.

"Oh, yes. And if it means wrapping you in red ribbon just for appearance's sake, I intend to play with and thoroughly enjoy my lovely new present first thing."

"Mmmm," he says smiling even more broadly. "D'you suppose James and Lily will be terribly put out if we're late?"

"Perhaps. I suppose we can always beg their forgiveness if we have to," Remus replies, kissing his shoulder and snuggling against his back.

"Happy Christmas, Moony."

"Happy Christmas, Padfoot."

"It is," Sirius murmurs, still smiling. He takes a deep breath, the mingling scents of clean sheets and Remus all around him. He exhales slowly, closing his eyes, feeling safe, warm, and, to his utter amazement, hopeful.

 

~fin~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Skipping, Stopping, and Starting Over (Running to Stand Still: the Dare Disturb the Universe Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/147450) by [glass_icarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass_icarus/pseuds/glass_icarus)




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